Hume's Law
by HooahSergeant
Summary: It's an unfortunate truth that things are never like the movies. Rachel tries her best to help Quinn through a rough night, hoping that maybe this time Quinn will finally let her in. Futurefic!
1. Chapter 1

Hume's Law states: Reality cannot be deduced exclusively from depictions of it.

Disclaimer: Own not. Profit not. Sue not.

AN: This features Special Agent Quinn Fabray, Special Agent Ryan Peterson, and Superstar Rachel Berry. If you haven't read "Littlewood's Law" you might be confused.

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><p>"Thank you sir. Sorry for the delay and have a good night," Quinn said pleasantly and waved yet another car on past their check point. She looked across the roof over at Ryan who merely puffed out a visible sigh in the chilly night air and rolled his eyes.<p>

They'd been at it for hours, and Quinn was starting to think all their hard work was going to get them this evening were a couple of runny noses and a few frozen fingers. But she smiled over at the grumpy man, tugged her black beanie more firmly down over her ears, and waved the next vehicle forward.

It had started snowing. At first, she only saw a few flakes drifting lazily through her field of vision but then…

"Oh yeah, that's just fantastic," Ryan grumbled, glaring up at the sky as if that would make the steady stream of thick flakes stop. There was a reason she was the one speaking to drivers this evening while her partner was relegated to additional light support and security.

She planned to tease him about it later.

Quinn smothered a chuckle with her gloved hand and stepped up to the dark sedan that pulled up between them. She held her badge up to the window and the driver slowly rolled it down, confusion heavy in his tight smile and worried eyes.

Her stomach twisted as she studied his features, "Hi, I'm Agent Fabray with the FBI, I just need a second of your time." She made sure to smile reassuringly while she directed the beam of her flashlight at her other hand and glanced at the sketch she was holding then back at him. "Where are you headed?"

"FBI?" he asked, and her stomach knotted again as her eyes locked onto his. His right eyelid was twitching, his smile too nice, forced.

Fake.

"Yes sir, that's correct." She nodded. "What brings you down here tonight?"

"Just on my way home," he answered, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, strangling it. "Can I ask what's going on?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not at liberty to say." She checked the sketch one more time.

And again, double, triple checked that face, those eyes…

The twist in her stomach turned into a full blown ache, every muscle in her body coiled, waiting.

She sought Ryan's eyes through the passenger window; saw the muscle in his jaw jump when he deciphered the look she was covertly sending his way.

Quinn cleared her throat and casually pulled the light up, not quite in the driver's eyes but close enough to make him uncomfortable. "Sir, we're going to need to get into your tru – "

The driver, an average looking man with light brown hair, a 5 o clock shadow, and nervous brown eyes – the killer they'd been hunting across the Eastern Coast, panicked. He stomped down on the gas pedal and tore away from them, racing through their check point.

"Fuck," Quinn hissed and pulled her Glock free, already chasing after the vehicle she had no hope of catching on foot. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ryan alongside her, matching service pistol trained on the retreating car. "Stop!" She shouted in frustration, though she knew it was futile.

Yelling 'freeze' at suspects rarely had the desired effect.

As though he'd read her mind Ryan opened fire at the same time she did – bullets bounced off the old car and shattered the rear window and windshield. She knew what was coming next, having seen it too many times in her career. The sedan veered hard to the left, tires squealing, as their suspect tried to avoid being shot, and ran his getaway vehicle straight through a fence and into a parked car.

Unlike what you would often see in the movies, nothing exploded – for that Quinn was exceedingly grateful.

Explosions were messy.

And just like she expected the driver side door was thrown open and the driver spilled out onto the black top. He was up and scrambling away from them in seconds, running for his life with two agents hot on his heels.

"Ryan, trunk!" she barked and pushed herself to run just that much faster after her quarry. He was a slippery little bastard and she'd be damned if he got away from her again because he outran her.

Fat fucking chance.

He slammed into another chain link fence, just like the one he'd already driven through and flew up and over it. She mentally thanked one Sue Sylvester for all her time on the Cheerios as she jumped onto the swaying fence panel and climbed it like she was born to. Her athleticism had always come in handy – something she happily rubbed in Ryan's face whenever he tried to tease her for being a High School cheerleader. Climbing fences and jumping off buildings hadn't been part of her otherwise rigorous training regimen when she was younger but all those back hand springs, push-ups, and wind sprints did help in the long run. She hit the ground with a grunt, rolled into a crouch and took off in a dead sprint.

He had a good lead, but she still saw him slam his way through a door into a run-down building.

_Why, why are there always decrepit warehouses or creepy buildings around_? Quinn groaned internally and slowed her pace to cautiously slip in after him. It was too dark to see, even with the moonlight sifting eerily through the roughly boarded windows. She whipped her flashlight back out and set her right wrist against her left, effectively pointing the beam forward and giving her a platform for her firing hand.

"Q," her radio crackled from her hip. "It's definitely our guy, we got someone in his trunk – alive."

Relief flooded her briefly, but she couldn't allow herself much time to relish the fact that they'd saved a life. Her senses were all on edge, straining for the slightest hint of her prey. She could hear everything like it was amplified, feeling jittery and hypersensitive with the adrenaline spike from the chase.

Somewhere, hiding in the shadows, a killer lurked.

She had to presume he was armed. A gun, a knife, hell a crowbar or a broken piece of wood with a rusty nail, anything in this man's hands would only add to the danger she was in.

She could very easily die.

Re-gripping her pistol to steady her hands Quinn sucked in a deep breath and surrendered to her training. Muscle memory quickly took over, her body slowed further still, her steps became more careful and controlled, one in front of the other, gliding smoothly to allow her weapon to remain stable. She moved as a single, graceful unit – a beautiful and deadly thing. No bounce in her shoulders or head, focused on her task, arms strong but giving to prepare for the recoil should she be forced to fire. She followed proper room clearing procedures, lead the way with her Glock, kept her eyes trained on the three white dots in a line, the middle her front site post. Her point of aim. She knew she was more than a good shot, Quinn Fabray was a surgeon when it came down to putting rounds on target. No one on her team was more precise, more frighteningly accurate. It was something that plagued her in her off hours but in those moments when she was stalking a predator, she had never been more thankful for her disturbing talent.

She rotated her torso to check a corner and a hand flashed out of the dark, too fast for her to fully avoid it. Awkwardly, she tried to angle her body away and searing pain shot up her arm. An angry yell tore free from her throat and she felt the heat and sting of blood, but she didn't have time to dwell on it.

Didn't have time.

She threw her body back, away from the knife slashing again, and immediately moved to change her position in this fight from defense to offense.

Her Glock was gone, somewhere behind her; she'd dropped it and her flashlight with the strike to her forearm. But unarmed didn't mean defenseless – and it was a mistake to think so. Unarmed combatives had been her second favorite course at the FBI Academy, right behind marksmanship. Yes she wasn't as physically impressive as her male coworkers, she wasn't as powerful but she was fast and she was mean.

He came at her again, trying for her throat. Expertly she weaved away from his wild stabbing, blocked his downward strike and followed up with one of her own. Pain jolted up her hand when her knuckles impacted his nose but she ignored it, grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into her knee. She shoved at him forcefully, ramming them both into a wall. He pushed back, freeing enough space to thrust the knife forward again, she could see the wicked curve of the gut-hook heading straight for _her_ gut and moved instinctively in tandem with her training. Her hands placed themselves against his arm and redirected his hand back into his own chest. His own momentum drove the weapon deep, sliding in with barely any resistance at all, all the way to the hilt.

It was over.

He coughed and she hurried back away from him, scooped up her pistol with blood slicked hands and trained it back on his face as he slumped down the wall. She could sort of see, with the light from her fallen flashlight, the way his eyes had glazed over.

"Quinn!"

She jumped at the sound of Ryan's voice but stayed where she was, gasping for air, weapon trained unwaveringly at the dead man in front of her. Ryan came rushing in but staggered to a stop as his flashlight beam hit the body on the floor. She heard the splattering sounds of her own blood hitting the ground as it fell from her wrist.

"You okay, boss?"

"No," she choked out, and sat down, _hard_.

Again her unwanted talent had saved her life by helping her take another's.

Ryan stepped up and set his fingers against the other mans neck, but Quinn already knew just like he did. She'd seen that look before, she was all too familiar with it now.

Fabray had just killed another one.

She heard the murmur of Ryan speaking into his radio, but she wasn't really listening to his words. Her eyes were locked on the still open and sightless ones across from her, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and wondered what Ryan would think of her if she threw up. He startled her anew, suddenly appearing in her line of sight when he knelt down at her side and beamed his flashlight down at her arm. They winced simultaneously at the mess. The gash was not particularly deep but it was long. She would need stitches.

"Jesus, Q," Ryan muttered and clamped his hand down against as much of the cut as he could. "Next time you check the trunk and I'll be the hero."

She grunted softly and shook her head at his poor attempt at humor.

_I'm no hero_, she wanted to say.

Soon more voices began to clamor in their vicinity, announcing the arrival of their back-up.

Quinn wished she felt relieved.

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><p>Hours later Quinn was safely at home and secure in the comforting arms of her bathtub. Reaching out she retrieved her short tumbler from beside her Glock where it rested on the toilet lid and took a long, burning sip of Makers Mark. She sighed heavily, set the glass back carefully, and dangled her freshly stitched and wrapped arm down the side of the tub, fingers trailing the cold tile of the floor. The hot water and sunflower scented bubbles never failed to make her feel better – even after being sliced open by a hunting knife. The whiskey was just the cherry on top, the alcohol making her feel like her mind was wrapped up in a fuzzy fleece blanket and warmed her stomach. She let her head fall back against the lip of the tub and closed her eyes, trying to let go of her day, ignore the ache in her arm, and give in to the effects of her favorite 'my day sucked' beverage.<p>

She felt the door open before she heard it – a rush of cold air that just barely stirred her hair, followed by the subtle creak of the hinges. Her eyes snapped open and she hurled her body into action, moving so violently that water slopped over the edge of the tub and splashed across the floor. Her sudsy hand smacked wildly against the toilet lid, searching for and finally finding the pistol grip of her Glock. She whipped back around, ears ringing and muted, trained that center dot between the eyes of her intruder and started to squeeze.

It all happened in seconds.

Her brain registered dark hair and frightened brown eyes just in time.

Rachel.

"Fuck!" she cried and almost dropped her pistol in surprise.

Rachel stood in the doorway, eyes huge on an ashen tanned face, "Quinn?"

"I – sorry, Rachel, god." Quinn put her firearm away and clapped her hands over her eyes with a groan. "Holy shit."

"Are you okay?" her girlfriend asked timidly, still standing in the doorway.

"Am I okay?" She tried to laugh but the sound got strangled half-way out her throat, _I'm not the one that just almost got shot_. "Come here," she pleaded and stretched out her arm towards the smaller woman.

The brunette guardedly stepped in, fingers in knots against her stomach, and perched on the side of the tub. "I'm sorry I scared you, I called your name when I came in – and I knocked."

"It's not your fault, I'm just a bit jumpy," Quinn assured her and closed her hand over both of Rachel's, stilling the motion of her fingers. Rachel looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once before her attention turned to the now wet bandages covering Quinn's arm from wrist to elbow.

"What happened?"

She sighed, letting out a deep breath through her nose, Rachel never could stop herself from asking and Quinn really hated not being able to say anything. "It's superficial," she promised, dodging the real question but still offering an answer. It never sat well with her – how good she'd gotten at that little game.

For once Rachel didn't press any further, she simply pulled one hand out from under Quinn's to lightly touch the injury, "It looks like it hurts."

"Only a little," she lied. "I thought you had a show tonight?"

"Do you even know what time it is?" Rachel asked, smirking a little as she visibly calmed down whilst stroking her fingers along the blondes forearm.

She frowned up at the Broadway diva, realizing she actually had no clue, and slumped back into her now half full and chilled bathwater. "I'm pretty sure I don't even know what day it is."

Rachel shook her head, but smiled as she brushed damp hair back behind her ear. Quinn leaned into the delicate touch and let her eyes close again. Seemingly encouraged by her reaction those fingers kept moving through her hair, tracing around the curve of her ear with each pass.

"I brought some movies." Rachel broke the easy silence. Quinn cracked open a single eye and moaned at the implication of 'some' movies.

"Rachel." She forced both eyes open and made herself sit up so they could have the conversation eye to eye. "I just wanted to take a bath, drink some whiskey, curl up on my couch and pass into a mini-coma watching my Looney Tunes dvd's."

"Please? I really want to watch these with you," she said softly and dragged her fingertips across the line of her collarbone. Quinn swallowed at the slightly ticklish and entirely unfair sensation.

She hesitated only a second longer, but she was already done for, "What are they?"

_You're such a push over_, her inner nag goaded.

Rachel smiled, kissed her cheek and hopped up from the tub. "I'll get you some clothes."

Quinn groaned again, quietly, as soon as Rachel was out of sight, and let her head drop heavily back against the tub.

"Also, I brought your favorite soup," an award winning voice called from down the hall.

She immediately perked up and pulled her weary body out of the tub.

Favorite soup always trumped total exhaustion.

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><p>TBC...<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you guys for the awesome reviews ^^ You all rock!

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><p>Rachel looked up, her focus shifting away from her stirring, when she heard Quinn approaching. She smiled fondly at the sight of her make-up free, wet haired, Georgetown sweatshirt clad girlfriend. Casual Quinn would always be her favorite, nobody else got to see her this way, without all the defenses up – without the mask on. To her it symbolized trust, the kind she'd never received from Quinn before. Seeing the agent like that never failed to make her heart flip in her chest. Casual Quinn was just for her, in the precious few quiet moments that they had. She wasn't SAC* Fabray, or Head Cheerio Quinn, she was just Quinn. Rachel's Quinn.<p>

The blonde was chewing her lip pensively as she ambled out into the living room, oblivious to the brunette's adoring stare. She was patting at her injured forearm with a rag, attempting to dry it, and Rachel could see the distance in her eyes. Quinn was somewhere off in her own head, unfocused on the present, moving on autopilot.

"Hey," the diva called out softly, hoping to avoid startling her girlfriend again. Even though the pistol was absent from her hip, and Rachel knew it was probably sitting on the bedside table, her fingers were still trembling from the last time she'd surprised Quinn. "Soup?"

Quinn turned to her, face blank for a long moment – still lost in whatever memory or thought she was in. Finally, she blinked and returned to the present, ducking her head sheepishly as she nodded. "Yes, please, that would be awesome."

Expelling the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, Rachel tilted her head and smiled at Quinn trying to assuage both of their obvious nervousness. The air between them was always filled with tension of some sort, but since the bathroom incident earlier, it felt a bit more awkward now. She desperately wanted to help with whatever it was that was bothering Quinn and her own nerves were getting in her way. "Okay, how about you go sit on the couch and I'll bring it out to you?"

Her smile slipped into a concerned frown the second Quinn's back was turned.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen the agent in such a state – skittish, wounded. Her past experience with getting Quinn out of a funk told her this would either be ridiculously difficult or easier than she'd thought. She snorted to herself as her mind swirled around the puzzle she called a girlfriend. Depending on how bad the event had been that caused Quinn to withdraw in the first place and how stubborn the other woman felt like being she could be at it for hours or days. Sometimes she just wanted to scream at her, if the blonde would just open up and tell her what the hell was going on it would save them both a lot of time and heartache. Rachel had a sinking suspicion that Quinn simply hid things from her because she was _afraid_. Afraid that she would condemn her for whatever it was that had happened, because she blamed herself for so much, and Rachel had figured that little gem out a month into their relationship. Quinn hid things, guiltily, as if she were certain that if she told Rachel, the brunette would leave. That last bit of defense drove her nuts, because if the blonde would just let that part go, it would allow Rachel in completely. But Quinn's abandonment issues ran deep, and the diva couldn't fault her for them.

It had been a long, drawn out, campaign – and that's exactly what she thought of it as, a 'campaign', a constant battle to try and dig her way past all Quinn's walls. Mostly, it took time and lots of patience. It was one thing she would definitely claim as having learned from her relationship with Quinn. Patience.

Tonight was going to be more difficult, simply because it had been so drastically different. Quinn had _never_ pulled her pistol on her before and she really wasn't sure what to do with that or how to take it. The part that scared her the most, (and it wasn't looking down the barrel of a gun,) was the look in the blonde's eyes. She'd seen all kinds of things in those hazel-green depths – Quinn could never keep her emotions from shining through them – the utter desolation, the self loathing and pure panic she'd seen had chilled her to the bone. Rachel could sit and speculate for hours about what had happened, she could dig through the newspaper, watch the news religiously and still have no clue. All she wanted to do was put the sparkle back in her girlfriend's eyes, and this time she wasn't sure she could accomplish that without help.

Taking a deep breath she filled a bowl with the warm alphabet soup – step one in her plan would be calming them both down. She'd gotten to be a pro at picking up on Quinn's body language, the jerkiness of her motions, the cautious way she walked, how her head seemed to be on a swivel, observing everything, and the twitching. Always with the twitching.

She was well on her way to being an expert on Special Agent Quinn Fabray. A thought that usually filled her with giddy delight, because she wouldn't have fathomed herself having anything to do with Quinn after high school. Let alone the fact that they were dating – and now she was the one who knew Quinn best. It was surreal in the best of ways.

"Here you go," she called from the kitchen, before she moved towards the couch.

Quinn's smile was weak but present as she accepted the bowl with a quiet, "Thank you." Rachel bent over the back of the couch to press a tender kiss to the blonde's temple. Simple gestures like that still awed her from time to time. They were so easy and natural – this facet of their entire relationship was. She smiled and repeated it, holding her lips against silky hair longer this time. Quinn hummed softly and leaned into her, one hand reaching up to slide into Rachel's hair and hold her.

It was all so effortless.

Like maybe it was meant to be.

Pulling away got more and more difficult the longer they held contact, Rachel knew, so she freed Quinn's hand from her hair and set it against the soup bowl in the blonde's lap. "Eat," she encouraged. With the other woman distracted, she slipped down the hall and back into the bathroom. The floor was still wet, so she threw a couple of towels down to soak up the water and noticed the tumbler of whiskey. Somehow it had survived the earlier chaos of Quinn's mad grab for her gun. Rachel mopped up the floor, scooting her feet around on the towels, then gathered them and the whiskey. Her nose wrinkled at the strong smell – she'd never been a fan of whiskey.

She traipsed back into the living room, dropped the towels off in the laundry room and crossed back to the couch. Quinn was staring into nothingness again, the empty bowl in her lap. She snapped out of it as she noticed Rachel setting her hand cautiously against the blonde's knee.

"You cleaned the water up didn't you?"

"You know I did." Rachel smiled and leaned in for the 'hello' kiss she hadn't gotten yet. It also served as a nice way to erase the guilty look from Quinn's face. She was pleased to feel her respond to the, at first, light brush of their lips by reaching her hands up to tug her closer and deepen the contact. Surprised by the action, Rachel, nevertheless, felt the welcoming flutter in her stomach and the rush of heat that accompanied it. Quinn was usually very chaste when she was in one of her brooding moods, but she certainly wasn't going to complain about this new behavior. She opened her mouth at the first hesitant touch of the blonde's tongue, and couldn't help but groan at the familiar sensation of her girlfriend invading her mouth. Want simmered with every caress and Rachel hated the fact that she had to break away to breathe. Air was severely overrated. Quinn had apparently learned to live without it and was planning to kiss her until she passed out.

_But what a way to go_, Rachel mused and cleared her throat. She lifted the tumbler still clutched in her hand and wiggled it until Quinn quit staring at her lips long enough to glance at it. "You left your drink behind."

Quinn started to reach for it but stopped and dropped her hand back into her lap, the arousal that had been lurking in her eyes was replaced with a sad, serious, expression. "Dump it," she finally said.

Secretly relieved, Rachel immediately padded back into the kitchen and poured the alcohol down the sink.

She turned her attention to the blonde's dvd player, ready for phase two of her plan. The diva sat, cross legged, in front of the six disk changer and started rotating out the movies in it, replacing them with those she'd brought. With that task accomplished, she bounced onto the couch with an eager giggle, ready for phase three.

Quinn was eyeing her television with no small amount of trepidation, but she smiled a really genuine affectionate smile at the brunette. Sometimes she was just too damn cute for her own good, and avoiding being taken with her was like resisting gravity. Moments like that made her fall harder, faster, just when she thought she couldn't fall any further.

Rachel cuddled up to her without another word, but couldn't help the smirk developing on her face as she turned the tv on.

Quinn groaned as the well known opening theme for 'The X-Files' filled her living room. Rachel pursed her lips together to resist the urge to whistle along (or laugh like the evil genius she felt like), pulled the fleece blanket off the back of the couch and spread it out over their legs.

"Rachel, no, really?"

"Completely serious, I'm curious by nature and the only way to satisfy my need for knowledge is research. Lots of research. I'm trying to familiarize myself with the FBI," she explained. She leaned in and kissed the blonde's pale throat soothingly. "This is happening, make peace with it."

"It's going to give you nightmares," Quinn warned after another stretch of silence. She lifted her good arm and pulled Rachel in closer, silently accepting her fate with a roll of her eyes. Her fingers curled warmly against the diminutive diva's hipbone, for both their comfort. Horror films were something she regularly enjoyed, not for the gore, but for the laughable monsters and villains. When you chased real life monsters in your nine to five, everything else turned into a joke. Rachel though, couldn't watch JAWS without being freaked out – it was adorable. She wasn't going to complain or even try to stop her girlfriend from this 'research' of hers. Having Rachel curled up, practically on top of her, because of whatever monster was on the television, was fine with her.

The diva tucked herself in further, moving Quinn's drying hair off her shoulder so she could rest her head there and sighed. "Good thing I've got you then."

Quinn hummed, the sound vibrating in her chest, and slipped her fingers under Rachel's shirt to draw lazy patterns on her warm skin with her fingertips. Surreptitiously, Rachel glanced up from under her bangs to study the other woman. She still looked worn out, but seemed less sad and her body was sinking into the support of the couch cushions. Determined to get the tense muscles she could feel to release, she put her arm across the blondes hips and turned her head to bump her nose into Quinn's collarbone. She continued to nuzzle lightly until the agent shifted against her, exposing more of her neck, and then let her lips tease over the skin until Quinn was nearly boneless in her arms.

The tension between them dissipated, and it was once again just Rachel and Quinn cuddling together on the couch like any other late night. Mission accomplished.

Settling back down with one last, farewell kiss to Quinn's throat the brunette returned her attention to the flickering images on the television screen.

"Rachel?"

"Yes, dear?" She tried to keep her voice light, but it still squeaked. The things depicted on the screen were, admittedly, disturbing. Mulder and Scully, the two FBI agents, were examining a horrifically deformed fetus that had been _buried alive_ and she was starting to think that perhaps, there were some things she should just remain curious about. Her stomach twisted in revulsion as the conversation between the two heroes continued.

"What season did you rent?"

She pried her attention free from the show and glanced up at Quinn. "I didn't rent a season. You know how I am, Quinn, I looked up the top ten episodes on Google and borrowed those specific disks from Allison."

"Your castmate Allison?"

Preoccupied with the images of the town Sheriff being bludgeoned to death – with the wife witnessing the death of her husband right before she was discovered and bludgeoned as well, it took her a second to answer. "I – yes, my castmate, Allison Spence." She shivered and twisted to hide her face in Quinn's shoulder. First a baby buried alive, now death by bludgeoning, not to mention the _thing_ under the bed. "Quinn, is this even accurate at all?"

Quinn hesitated in answering, because in all honesty dead children and horrific, senseless murders, were an unfortunate reality in her world – but Rachel didn't need to know that. She decided to opt for humor. "Oh yeah, totally. I chase aliens all the time, and Ryan's even been abducted before, just ask him about probing sometime."

Rachel snorted and peeked at the screen again, Quinn's hand was splayed out fully over her stomach now, holding her securely. Safe. She rearranged herself until her head rested in the blondes lap and curled up, leeching warmth and seeking refuge. Still not completely satisfied, she blindly reached for her girlfriend's other hand, found it and put it against her head. Quinn started to sift her hands through her hair, gently tugging at the strands in an aimless manner.

The diva whimpered and quivered as the show continued, somehow getting darker still as the Deputy's head was cleaved from his body via a booby-trap set by grotesque, inbred, 'pig-men' who proceeded to then rip him to pieces.

"So, Allison, huh?" Quinn inquired after noting the shivers and soft sounds coming from the woman in her lap.

"You've been attempting to assist me in making friendships and I decided to follow your advice in that regard. I asked to borrow something so that I may form a bond over a common interest, as you suggested – and I get to watch something about the FBI, which I was hoping might gain me some more insight into you. Even though I now see how loosely based this must be. Quinn this is terribly disquieting."

"It's not real, Superstar," the agent assured her and shook her head. "You know that."

"Some of it is," Rachel said and rolled onto her back. Quinn's hand never left her hair, continued to stroke through the thick locks calmly. "Quinn."

The hand stilled its movements, only briefly, as though she'd hit a snag.

Sensing that she was close to something, so tantalizingly close to getting through, Rachel groped in the blanket until she found the remote. She hit the pause button, dropped the controller, and pressed her palm against the hand resting on her stomach.

"Quinn," she tried again, lightly whispering the name like the softest plea.

"I killed someone last night."

Her stomach turned to ice at the defeated, pained, confession. Her mind stalled, she didn't know what to say, how to make that better.

Quinn's started to cry, silently, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks to drip off her chin and into Rachel's hair. The brunette felt her chest hitch at the sight, heartrendingly beautiful and so terrible to watch. Her vision began to swim as tears began to fill her own eyes.

She didn't know what to say but she knew what she could do.

Sitting up and swiveling around, she latched on to her girlfriend and pulled her head onto her chest. She let her body fall backwards until her head hit the opposite armrest and Quinn was fully on top of her. Her hands filled with blonde hair as she worked to soothe the escalating sobs rocking the body laying on hers.

"I'm a _monster_, Rachel," Quinn cried and turned her sticky face into the diva's warm chest.

Rachel shushed her, heart breaking, and cradled her close. "You're not anything close to a monster."

"It's always me, every time and I'm so damned good at it. I never miss and it's like I'm cursed. The blood's always on my hands and I think it's on my soul and I keep _seeing_ them."

The dam broke then, as the last of Quinn's walls cracked and crumbled away. Rachel struggled to hold on to her, crying right along with her while she searched for the right thing to say to make this alright.

In a flash of inspiration she reached and lifted Quinn's chin until the blonde was forced to meet her gaze, she held it, tried to pour every ounce of love and adoration she felt in her heart out of her eyes. "You are not a monster. Monster's aren't real, you always tell me that when I'm scared. _Evil_ is real, Quinn, and you keep me and so many other people _safe_ from it. Sometimes people are just bad, whether they were made to be that way or somehow born with it – I don't know. But I do know that you aren't bad, you're the farthest thing from it. You're a hero, baby. You're _my_ hero." She gripped Quinn's hand where it was fisted against the brunette's ribs and brought it up, made a show of studying it intently, very aware of the intensity of the blonde's stare. "I don't see any blood," she said and with her focus entirely on Quinn's face, she tenderly kissed her pale fingers. The agent's eyes fluttered, her harsh breathing calmed to sniffles as she watched the process. Rachel carefully 'cleaned' each finger, pressing her lips to each slender digit in turn, followed by her palm, then pried the other hand free from her side and repeated the act. "There," she breathed and returned her tiny hands back to their earlier task – sliding down golden hair and over Quinn's back. "All better."

They stayed that way through the early morning hours, Quinn eventually falling asleep, sniffling against Rachel's chest while the diva held her.

"Monsters aren't real," Rachel grumbled defiantly into the dark apartment before exhaustion finally won the fight and pulled her into a heavy sleep.

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><p>END (Bonus points if you can guess the X-Files episode they were watching!)<p>

*SAC – Special Agent in Charge.


End file.
